walking through the door
she is greeted by a few
half assed hellos
she nods and heads to the familiar stool
she usually occupies at the end of the bar
the stool is maroon, cracked vinyl
and wobbles dangerously when she sits
she instinctively reaches for her cigarettes
kept in her jacket pocket
then stops with annoyance recalling the ban
'***** rocks, joe'
and the iced, clear drink
seems to appear out of nowhere
'keep em' comin''
she sighs hungrily after the first sip
and settles deeper, more relaxed, into her seat
again, the cigarettes
again, the weary shake of her head
she perks a little when reaching for her drink
joe gives way to dave
and the late afternoon
creeps into early evening
the clinking of glasses becomes more frequent
all the stools and most of the tables are filled
there’s drunken laughter
tipsy arguments
glass eyed flirtations
bold approaches
weepy departures
and she sits through it all
with her *****
on her stool
alone
at the bar.
and no this is not based on personal experience